Please remember me
by Miluielwen
Summary: Previously Brother in his arms. The surviving knights remember their fallen brothers. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Brother in his arms

**Author: **Miluielwen  
**Genre: **angst, drama  
**Characters: **Arthur, Lancelot  
**Summary: **After the battle of Badon Hill, Arthur carries Lancelot back to the Wall.  
**Disclaimer: **Still don't own.  
**Dedication**: As ever, Jess, simply for being her awesome self and for beta-ing this piece of Armageddon. Also to all of my KA loving friends, even the ones who aren't particulary fond of dear Lance. ;)

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_Knights, brothers in arms…_

Walking back slowly towards Hadrian's Wall, Roman commander Arthur Castus carried his brother in his arms.

The irony of the situation seemed to be infinite.

_What I do remember… home…_

For years, Arthur had cherished the thought of visiting the Empire's capital, perhaps even living there; because there, he would finally see true civilisation, and there, he would at last be reunited with Pelagius.

He would be home.

Yet how does one define home? Had Rome ever truly been his?

_Rome is dead._

His dream had been shattered that day. With Pelagius gone, and the great Empire he once thought he served crumbling, what was left for him in the far away country?

_Oceans of grass from horizon to horizon, further than you can ride._

Part of him yearned to see the green plains his knights had always talked of. Part of him yearned to know if it was truly beautiful like he had always heard, or if it had merely been the idolised fantasy of homesick young men.

Like his vision of Rome had been.

_I want peace, Lancelot._

Lancelot once told him that it wasn't Rome they were fighting for, nor the island they were bound to.

How could he have? How could he care for the peace of a country not his own, but one that had claimed the lives of his people nonetheless?

Arthur had never blamed Lancelot for not caring, but neither would he ever forget the moment when Lancelot rode up Badon Hill, and the knowing smile they had exchanged.

They fought for peace. They fought for freedom.

_I chose life! And freedom, for myself and the men!_

He had always wanted freedom for his knights; none in the world were more deserving of it than them. Even when he wronged them, putting their lives in danger while they were supposed to be free, they still followed him.

Had Lancelot known how his heart ached when they rode out of the camp and into the wild?

Had Lancelot known how his heart broke when Dagonet fell, sacrificing himself to ensure their survival?

_You who know me best of all._

They had been the best of friends. It hadn't been easy in the beginning, Lancelot's pride and his own stubbornness clashing, but they had grown to know each other like no other.

They had been brothers. He had never cared much for the world, so long as Lancelot was by his side.

Now it seemed his world was shattered.

_For our friendship's sake, I beg you!_

He never had the chance to beg, but he would have.

The brave and selfless Arthur would have begged like a child, selfishly, for his friend to stay.

To live.

He never had the chance.

_With you by my side, we can do so again._

But without his brother there, what was he to do?

_Does it all count for nothing?_

If he couldn't even get his men home, how was he to rule a country?

_Burn me. Burn me, and cast my ashes to a strong east wind._

How does one react to such a request, and how does one deny it?

He hadn't been able to. Lancelot had known he would not have been able to.

And so he clung to his second in command's still body, knowing it would soon no longer be there to hold on to.

_Fallen knights return as great horses._

Tears coursing down weathered cheeks unheeded, the soon to be king hoped, wished, prayed that the old legend would be true.

That somewhere, on the grassy fields of Sarmatia, a raven black foal would stand on wobbly legs, free from his first breath.

_We will go home across the mountains._

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A/N: So, I'm thinking of maybe making this into a sort of series where the knights remember their fallen brothers… but it's all up to you. Please read & review!


	2. Thicker than water

**Author: **Miluielwen  
**Genre: **angst, drama  
**Characters: **Gawain, Galahad, dead!Tristran  
**Summary: **During one of their knife throwing games, Galahad and Gawain remember the elusive Scout.  
**Disclaimer: **Oh, please. Do I look like Jerry Bruckheimer?  
**Dedication: **Sasha and Stéphanie, for adoring Tristran as much as I do and for the continuous nagging to update; also, the amazing Jess for being my beta and the unwavering support.

A/N: Woah, it _has_ been a while, hasn't it? I walked around with the draft of this chapter in my bag forever, but never got around to editing and/or posting it. Real life kinda caught up to me. Sorry to have kept you waiting, my dears…

Despite dear Jess' reassurance that the characterization isn't completely off-center and random, I'm worried about it. I'm just not able to see the man as nothing more than a cold hearted psycho; I've tried to work my way around the stereotypical silent Scout, tried to look beyond the obvious bloodlust. Still, Tristran is such a complex character that I can only hope I've done him justice. Please judge for yourself if you think I got him right. )

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_I aim for the middle._

They never imagined it would happen, never saw it coming. It was one of the few certainties in the knights' uncertain lives, something that just didn't happen. An unwavering constant, much like Tristran himself had been. But like the Scout's unexpected death, it did happen, leaving them dumbfound and utterly bewildered. Galahad's throwing knife was imbedded in Gawain's... in the middle.

_Tristran, how do you do that?_

The years old question had been asked in drunken amazement. Part of him knew from the beginning that he would hit the middle; he always did. The curiosity lay in the fact that the knight had actually decided to play along with them. But, with the sensible part of him temporarily shut off by the consumed ale, "why" had easily transformed to "how", and he had idly wondered at it.

It seemed so long ago now, a lifetime since they had basked in their newfound freedom. All had been well in the world, then. They had survived, seven brothers bound by years of hardship and death, and they were finally free.

_Hey... you're free._

Though really, Tristran had always been free. He had seen more of the blasted island than any of the others ever had, roaming the foggy planes in solitude.

The man never did quite lose the wandering nature of his people, and would often stay away for long periods of time.

_Where've you been, then? Where you been?_

His brother knights would wonder this very thing every time the elusive scout returned to the Fort, exhausted beyond words and usually sporting an injury or two.

But they never asked; they knew he wouldn't answer. He seemed to be living in a world of his own, sometimes, a world where none could die and all were free, like he was. A world fortified by an impassive facade and stony silence.

It frightened them, the carelessness in his manner, the seeming bloodlust in battle. There were times the dark knight even seemed to enjoy the killing.

_I don't kill for pleasure... unlike some._

Remembering his harsh words, Galahad realized that neither had Tristran. Not really.

The Scout had come to see it as a necessity and had shut down all natural responses to it, but he had never liked it any more than any of them did. Revelled in his skills, certainly -- but hadn't they all? Wasn't it what they excelled in, no matter how gruesome it might've been?

They all had their ways of dealing; Tristran's silence and lack of emotion was just another one. As long as he didn't care, he wouldn't hurt -- but both Gawain and Galahad knew that somewhere hidden inside Tristran's mind, a frightened young boy had sat weeping for all he lost.

_You should try it someday, you might get a taste for it._

But when the mask he had taken on was removed, however briefly, the knights would glimpse something of the real Tristran; the one that had a wry sense of humour and loved to dance.

It was in those moments that they would see a shift in the dark eyes, a long lost sparkle of mirth or sorrow, or that they would witness the rare, tiniest of half smiles quirking at his mouth.

Yet mask or no, Tristran knew one thing: death was inevitable.

_Yeah, yeah, we're all going to die someday._

He didn't fear it; he never had. There had been so much death in his life that he would even welcome it -- or so he thought.

Because when Death finally came for him, he was desperate to live. To see Bors' children grow. To return home, wherever that was.

To look after his brothers as he always had.

His brothers had been heartbroken when the woad-covered warrior had entrusted the details of their scout's demise to them.

_If you're so eager to die, you can die right now!_

How Galahad regretted his words. The infinite irony of life never ceased to amaze him, and he desperately wished he hadn't been so hard on his brother.

Because that was what to them, despite the differences, despite the distance and apparent dislike: their brother.

Tristran had been a complex man, one the knights barely seemed to know after fifteen years of serving with him; but nevertheless, water was thicker than blood in this case, and he was family.

_Tristran, ride ahead. _

And now, slowly averting their eyes from the upturned table used for their target practice and locking them with the other's, Galahad and Gawain shared the same thought:

Ride ahead, brother. We'll be along soon.

_We will go home across the mountains._

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A/N 2: As always, please read and review!  
Inspiration for the dancing line came from Cardeia's lovely "Cerys at Knight", btw…  
The Dagonet chapter, "His brothers' keeper", will be up ASAP!


	3. His brothers' keeper

**Author**: Miluielwen**  
Genre**: angst, drama**  
Characters**: Bors, dead!Dagonet**  
Summary**: Looking out over his village, Bors reminiscences on life and the best friend he lost.**  
Disclaimer**: Oh, please. Do I look like Jerry Bruckheimer?**  
Dedication**: All of you who have stuck around long enough to see the end of this. I hope it does not disappoint.

**A/N:** Well, it's been over two years since I've started this and to say a lot has happened since then would be an understatement. =) This may consequently be ever so slightly different in style, but I've tried to keep it in tone with the rest of chapters while also attempting to wrap things up at last. I'm not sure I like it; it seems a tad erratic and is un-beta'd, but I fear that if I don't post this now I'll never get around to it!

Thank you for all your very generous reviews -- you have been a fantastic audience. I'm currently working on my first real multi-chapter work, "Behind Every Great Man", also available on this site. Have a look if you'd like; I'm currently working on a new chapter but research is taking quite some time. (Yes, I know the movie isn't very historically accurate to begin with, but I'd like to incorporate at least some elements of truth...)

Last but not least: the title of this (entire) piece, as you may have guessed, originates from Loreena McKennit's "Dante's Prayer".

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_We'll have the run of all this place. I'll be governor of my own village._

It had been more of a jest than anything else then, a joke to lighten his brothers' spirits. It seemed almost surreal now that he stood on top of the grassy slope overlooking the small village that had been his home and domain for the past few years.

Life had a strange way of working sometimes.

_And Dagonet will be my personal guard and royal arse-kisser!_

Even then, the big knight had looked away, almost as if he had known the uncertainty of the future. He had been taken from them even before Arthur became king and all of Britain had rallied under the Roman's dragon standard; a time that at once was so far away and yet never far from his mind. For all the prosperity and happiness they had found in their new lives, the knights had never forgotten those that had fallen in their long years of service.

Bors sometimes wandered what would have happened had they not gone on that faithful last mission; would they have become embroiled in yet another war that wasn't their own, defending the very people they had fought for over a decade?

But it was too late for what-ifs and might-have-beens. The fact of the matter was that his friend was never coming back and that he would have to find his own way now.

Not that he had easily accepted that notion or wouldn't miss his would be bodyguard every single day for the rest of his life.

_Stay with me, Dagonet! Stay with me!_

Oh, how he had begged; how he had wept when first returning to the fort after the battle on the ice. With all the fighting and rebuilding that had to be done, however, he had not truly noticed just how much of a gaping hole Dagonet had left. Now that the numbness of loss had passed and he finally allowed himself to calm and remember, it became obvious how much they had depended on him.

He wasn't the only one that had lost a friend when the ice had cracked that day.

Arthur, for one, had lost a trusted advisor and ally. Dagonet had ever been at his side, unwavering in his support and belief in their commander, even in those early days when most had still been hostile towards the fresh-faced Roman. He had seen in him what many others now saw as well: a great leader of men destined to rule.

_We have the word of Arthur. That is good enough._

How many times had he convinced them to listen to their supposed leader? Bors could not remember, but did know that they would heed his advise with only very few exceptions. He was their voice of reason, their guiding light even in the most impenetrable darkness, quiet but bright as a candle in the night.

The younger ones had looked to him for assurance; the elders for wisdom and strength. He had ever been his brothers' keeper. Though they knew eternity was only an illusion, he had been enough of a rock to all of them that life without his support had seemed to be near impossible. He would take care of them as he always had.

_Won't you, Dag?_

Badon Hill had changed their lives in so many ways. They had known things would change, but the situation they now found themselves in was beyond what they could have ever imagined. He was a proper father now, married to his long-time love and delighting in playing with his children. He retained some of his rough ways, certainly, and the gods knew he needed them occasionally when dealing with matters of state; but old age, it seemed, had softened him, and he secretly did not mind it.

_She wants to get married. Give the children names._

It was sad, really, that Dagonet had never married: he would have made a wonderful parent, something that had been evident from the day he took One on his shoulders while rocking Two in his cradle, smiling fondly at the two babes. It had been hard to tell his children of their beloved uncle's death, but perhaps even harder to see young Lucan orphaned once more when by all means he should have had a substitute father.

With a heart as big as the gentle giant's had been, had he ever truly loved a woman? Surely he must have, yet Bors did not know. Perhaps he had been so adamant in loving as many as he could in his mild mannered ways that he could not love one and one alone; or perhaps the other knights had been so caught up in their own lives and business that they had simply never noticed.

_You'd miss them too much._

They wouldn't leave the island they had once hated so much, not when their lives where so thoroughly invested in its people and their past so undeniably buried in its soil. He knew that now and was glad for it. Britain wasn't so bad, really. He had his family and his friends and he had his position at Arthur's court. Leaving to return to a place he only vaguely remembered and a people that definitely would not remember him was no longer an option.

He would miss his home too much.

_Here. Now._

For indeed, this **was** home; the home that Dagonet had once confided him had dreamed of. A land of peace and justice; a land of friends and family and joy. Overwhelmed by the sense of understanding that came over him, the ageing knight was forced to sit, plopping down on the dewy grass.

Right here, right now was where he belonged, and he'd be damned if he did not live every day to the fullest to honour his fallen comrades.

_For Dagonet._

He would live; for Lancelot, for Tristran, and most of all, for Dagonet.

_We will go home across the mountains._

And by doing so, living by their example and telling his children of their valour and benevolence, he would keep their memory alive until one day he would join them across the mountains.

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Please read & review!


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